


Over the Sunset Sea

by W12_Supernatural (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/W12_Supernatural
Summary: West of Westeros, there lies a continent. Americanos, it is called. Over the Sunset Sea, there will be events that influence Westerosi history





	1. Prologue: Tyler I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tyler and an Easterlander scouting party are taken by surprise, and the War of the Fivepenny Kings kicks off

"We should rest," August urged as the day slowly turned to night, "The men are getting tired,"

"Tired, bastard?" Ser Andrew Alam asked irritably, though with a slight smile

"Aye, I am. And we've been marching since midday non-stop. What in the Seven hells does Lord Aiaton want you to do?" August replied, though his face was blank

"He wants me to investigate any incursions on the border," Tyler replied curtly

"Oh, that much I know. What exactly does that mean?" August asked, sounding more irritable.

Tyler did not answer. Even Ser Andrew, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, understood. For the past several years, following the death of King Devon Wanasov, the first of his name, and the split up of Americanos, the Estenhaal, ruled by House Frost, had apparently launched incursions into the northern Easterlands, and the Frills had been raided by longships from House Stockman. However, Reckan Frost's death three years after Devon's resulted in an all out civil war in the Estenhaal, with House Fysch emerging as victors after two years, all while the rest of the continent attempted to gain independence from Devon's son, Falahim. The Fyschs were renowned for their fierceness and cruelty, and had launched incursions. As a result, Tyler had been sent with one-hundred and fifty men and Ser Andrew, of House Alam, to investigate it. Though the Estenhaal-Easterland border was largely barren, Tyler knew that if the Estenhaalites felt emboldened, they would attack in full force, knowing full well the Wanasovs of the Styr and Nokoseovs of the Valley would do nothing to stop them, even though they had fought them only the year before

_Of course. It's not like we can do much. We're already pre-occupied with the War against the Sutherlands and Marches. Why would Lord Northern worry about tiny incursions? _Tyler thought grimly.__

__In truth, the Easterlands had lost much of its military strength in the past decades, both in the War of the Seven Kings, which unified Americanos, and the wars with House Ryan, rulers of the Sutherlands, over Long's point. The wars it fought drained its military resources, and now the Easterlands could barely muster ten-thousand men, a far cry from the forty-thousand it could raise ten years ago_ _

_But now Lord Northern has allied us with the Cooperlands. Perhaps if we stayed neutral... ___

"How tired are the men?" Tyler asked, himself tired. _Maybe August is right... ___

"Incredibly." August replied, just as curt as Tyler had been earlier

"Fine," said Tyler. "Ser Andrew, call a general halt. "We're resting for the night,"

As Andrew did so, raising his right fist at head level, Tyler heard August remark, "Not a bad place to camp. Did the Mother make this place for us?"

"Quit being an annoying cunt and help me pitch these tents. It looks like it will rain," Tyler replied, irritable. 

August nodded, and unloaded his bedroll.

Not long after some tents had been pitched and most of the men settled, around fires, his horse's ears pricked up and it whinnied, apparently having heard some noise

Then Tyler heard it as well. The sound of boots marching. Tyler knew that sound, and if his hunch was true, then it was not good at all

"August," he said, keeping his voice low. "You hear that?"

"Fuck off, Tyler, I'm trying to sleep," came August's voice, sounding more irritated now."

Then there it was. The sound a twig snapping. Tyler heard cursing, though he could not make it out exactly what it was. August snapped up, crawling out of his tent, the one he shared with Tyler. "What in Seven hells was that?" he asked Tyler.

"An ambush," Tyler whispered. "And I've a feeling they're Estenhaalites."

"Should we warn the others?

"No time," admitted Tyler, suddenly feeling ashamed. "Get your weapons ready,"

As August drew his sword, Tyler quickly glanced at his men. None of them appeared to have heard the disturbance, and even if they had, they probably chalked it up to a deer or other animal.

"Ambush!" August yelled as an arrow flew at them

The arrow was not directed at them. Rather, it hit Ser Andrew in the neck, between his helm and plate armor, piercing the mail protecting his neck, and killing him instantly. Ser Andrew toppled backwards of the log he was using as a chair, and blood began to pool the moment he hit the ground.

The sound of the arrow piercing flesh, and August's yell, jerked the men back up. However, most of their weapons were down, since they had stopped to make camp.

Then, as another arrow slammed into the skull of one of the men, they heard a wordless battle cry from the hills to the left

Several men, likely Estenhaalites charged at various points along the line. Try as they might, the men were taken by surprise and many of them were cut down.

Tyler had no time to worry about that, as one of the raiders had already ran down and charged him, sword raised and yelling a wordless battle cry.

Tyler deflected the first sword strike with his own sword, and rammed it through his attackers stomach. The man gave a gurgled cry, his throat and mouth rapidly filling with blood. Tyler withdrew his sword and the attacker fell to one side.

Tyler snuck a look at the rest of the party. The Easterlanders were fighting valiantly, but most of them were unarmed, thanks to the element of surprise being against them. To his left, August had cut down several attackers and was in the process of killing another enemy.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of steel caught his attention. He turned to his right, sword raised, and narrowly blocked an attack from another raider. However, this one looked more determined. His sword gleamed menacingly in his left hand, and a shield bearing the sigil of a house he did not recognize, his surcoat bearing the same sigil.

With a shout, the raider launched himself forward, barreling into Tyler's now-exposed chest. Caught off guard, he tumbled to the ground, sword dropping from his hand

The ground hurt, with Tyler having the wind knocked out of him. The raider dropped his shield and held his sword in a two-handed grip, ready to kill.

Tyler had heard of last words, but never last thoughts. 

_It seems weird, no? A knight dying like this?_

Then, without warning, a longsword appeared in the middle of the raiders chest. The man's expression changed from a snarl to one of absolute shock. His own sword dropped from his hands and landed besides Tyler's legs, harmlessly.

The sword pulled out, and the raider fell over, revealing August. The bastard of Decz had an expression on his face Tyler could not read, one that looked to be a mix of loathing, exasperation, and sadistic joy all at the same time. He sheathed his sword and held one hand out to Tyler, who gratefully took it.

"Thanks for saving my life," Tyler said breathlessly, when both had gotten back up,"

August shrugged, as if it were nothing. "Don't mention it 'Duty is always calling', as my father would say."

Ignoring August's recital of House Decz's words, Tyler knelt and retrieved his own sword. "Now what?"

August gestured wordlessly to the rest of the men, who looked to be pitifully few in number. "Seems we chased off the rest of those fuckers. Or killed them all,

"I doubt it," Tyler said doubtfully. "The Fyschs are cruel, but cunning all the same. Odds are they had a few men back, to report what had happened to Demoory or even Umbrian Keep should things go sour,"

"Both castles are far away," August pointed out. "And what makes you think the Fyschs are behind this?"

"House Fysch rules over the Estenhaal and the Nose," Tyler replied.

August waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, I know that. But do you really think the Fyschs sent these men?"

"The first man I killed wore the sigil of House Snyke. Two gray gears on blue and white bendy."

"And the second?"

"You mean the one you killed to save my life? I don't know the house but the sigil looked like it had a trout," Tyler replied, pointing his sword to the man August had stabbed in the back

August walked over to the man, turned him over, and Tyler saw the color drain from his face

"What is it?" Tyler inquired, knowing full well the seriousness of this now that August had blanched.

August got up and walked back to Tyler "House Doty. They swear fealty directly to House Frost, though now its House Fysch, really. Their lands are the closest to here. My bet is that the Fyschs sent men from Saboteur's Holdfast and Doty to harass us,"

Tyler was flat-out confused. "And what does this mean?"

"These weren't brigands who live in the mountains, or men from the Estenhaal who shook off their coats for an incognito mission and failed, these were actual men-at-arms from the Estenhaal. You do know what this means, right?" August asked ominously.

Tyler nodded. "War. This means war."

"Well, we've a bigger problem on our hands now." 

"No men," Tyler replied. He had heard regular arrow shots and screams of men and the clash of steel. "Somehow I am not surprised. They had the element of surprise."

"A massive advantage," August concurred. "I recall that our men were huddled around fires."

"The cold is approaching." Tyler said.

"No, you idiot, thats not what I meant." August said irately.

"Then what do you mean?"

"What I mean is that since the men were around fires, they didn't want to fight, something tells me that there was a heightened sense of security. The men weren't expecting to fight anything more than a bandit or two. There was no warning, was there? And the raiders sure knew how and where to hit us."

"Are you suggesting this was a trap and we were lured right into it?"

August nodded. "Yes, thats exactly what I am suggesting. This all feels fishy to me."

"Now that you think of it..." Tyler muttered

When Lord Northern had assigned him to lead this mission, in the great hall of Greenfeld, Tyler remembered one man, one seated behind Lord Northern, clad in black-grey robes. _Emelis_ he suddenly remembered.

Emelis was originally from the Estenhaal, a Wiseman, Tyler remembered. Normally Wisemen were assigned to castles in the region of their birth, but Emelis was an exception. He was also a noted spymaster, commanding a large group of spies and informants throughout Americanos, and a few were even in Westeros. Emelis' spies, were innocuous, usually whores or minor guards, people who one would never assume of being spies for the other side. But he was also smart enough to cover up his tracks.

At the same time, while Emelis was undeniably useful, Tyler never trusted him during the few times he had interacted. Emelis always seemed to be more loyal to the Estenhaal than House Northern or the Easterlands.

"The last time I was at Greenfeld, I remembered the castle's Wiseman, Emelis."

"Emelis?" August asked, utterly perplexed.

"A spymaster. Originally from the Estenhaal, I think he may be a bit too loyal to it."

"Do you think he was responsible in some way?"

"Perhaps." said Tyler, sitting down, beckoning for August to do the same. "We've already discussed the fact that the Estenhaalites seemed to know we were coming, and only one man I know of would have any loyalty to it, and that man is Emelis,"

"Interesting," said August. "But what makes you think he's responsible?"

"It's... just a suspicion." Tyler admitted. "But we shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm not. Especially while we've bigger issues."

"Agreed," was all August said.

Tyler softly chuckled to himself, so that August couldn't hear him "War has begun. It will tear us all asunder, and we may all end up dead."

Then, he exchanged one look with August before beginning to pick up the dead, who now smelled terribly. 


	2. Haragon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War council in Cracovia Heights, intro to Haragon and House Wanasov.

The room, as light as it was with the candles illuminating it, felt creepy somehow. Maybe because the light that had resulted was a burnt orange, one that inspired curiousness, fear, and worry all at the same time. Two men were at the table, across from each other one standing, in full armor, though his helm lie at the floor by his feet. the other sitting, in fancy riding gear, fitting of a King, separated by a large map. The map was of Americanos, one spread all across the table. Wooden markers carved with various sigils were spread across it. Stallions, Bolts, Crosses, the like. All represented Houses of Americanos. Koselka, Wanasov, Nyven, and many others.

Haragon knew them all. As a boy in Cracovia Heights, the Heights' Wiseman, Faradei, had taught him all the sigils of every noble and knightly house in the continent. Every. Single. One. He had tested them on it, and Haragon still remembered all of the sigils, even over a decade later. The white stallion of House Koselka. The gray hands and multi-colored seven pointed star of House Wise. The fox head and anchor of House Florence.

But now childhood was a distant memory for him, even more for his older brothers, now having reached or passed three decades of life. His younger brother, Teublonf, had gone across the Sunset Sea at four and ten after enduring abuse from their parents for that long. Teublonf, Haragon had heard, had been trained by Willem Dayne, a Westerosi, said to be the greatest weapons master and master of arms at Cracovia Heights until his retirement only one year ago. Two of his older brothers, Péotr and Cameron, were dead, as were their mother and father, with Péotr leaving three children behind, Cameron unmarried. But now, he had more pressing issues to deal with. Ones that had to do with the safety and security of the people his house, House Wanasov, was supposed to rule.

_Teublonf is across the Sunset Sea, quite happy, from what his letters say, Father and Mother have passed, as have Péotr and Cameron. And now I'm stuck assisting the least competent of us Wanasovs rule._

Haragon couldn't help but feel irritated by his brother, King Falahim Wanasov. Not irritated, no, that was too kind. Enraged, more like it. For it was Falahim's incompetence that had led to the loss of unity that their father, King Devon, had fought a whole war for. Falahim had once been wise, just, and a formidable warrior, but once he had lost his right hand, his sword hand, fighting in one of the several wars House Wanasov had fought against the Cooperlanders to the south, he had become bitter and unstable. After Devon's death, Falahim had not been recognized as rightful king of the Eleven Kingdoms by the rest of the Continent, and they had rebelled.

House Wanasov had lost that war, during which one its key allies, the Estenhaal ruled by House Frost had erupted into a civil war after its lord died without issue. House Wanasov supported the side that had eventually lost, though Haragon felt that the Styr had not done enough to support House Stockman, who supported Lord Reckon Frost's nephew, Peter Frost, and their allies, for while Falahim was willing to support them in name, he was unwilling to send Wanasov troops to die there. House Fysch, the victors, had not been friendly either even though the Wanasovs had not directly fought them. They had executed Peter after holding a false trial, and they had demanded House Stockman and its allies, even the Wanasovs and Nokoseovs, pay tribute.

Houses Wanasov and Nokoseov had refused to pay the tribute. The Fyschs had attacked at one point, but the Nokoseovs had destroyed their army marching through the Wailing Peak, and the Wanasovs at Vaughn. That had convinced the Fyschs to back off, so while the Styr and Valley was fighting the Cooperlanders and Easterlanders, the Estenhaal, one of the Styr's key allies previously, did not commit, and as a result, the Styr-Valley alliance had been forced to admit defeat.

After the conclusion of the Civil war in the Estenhaal, Falahim, and Lord Iain Nokoseov, lord of the Valley, had adopted a policy of isolation, ignoring any plea for help from anyone, largely due to that treatment, and a desire to return to peace.

That in and of itself made Haragon angry with his brother. House Wanasov had always fought or traded with the regions it bordered, the Estenhaal, Cooperlands, Valley of Nokoseov, and Vale of Ledtower, or had a grudging peace with them. While the Styr as a whole was self-sufficient, House Wanasov had always valued the mortar and stone from the Vale, large amounts of steel from the Valley, and the livestock from the Cooperlands. It was also not like a Styric to cut himself off from any problems. They had always dealt with them. Styrics were notoriously blunt and straightforward, known for their valor and fierceness in war and protection of their own in peace, though not known for honor or piety, even though they did keep to the Old Gods and most castles had a godswood, and the fact that many Styrics did become knights.

Haragon noticed most of the markers were located in the southern Estenhaal, along its border with the Easterlands and Valley of Nokoseov, one divided by mountains. "Falahim." he said, confused. "Why are most of the Fysch markers in the southern Estenhaal?"

Falahim looked up at Haragon for the first time. His hair was matted, he stank of wine and sweat, and his normally immaculate riding gear had pools of sweat all over it. His crown lay on the table, sad looking, and there were large bags around his eyes. 

"I've heard the Fyschs are amassing troops along the Mountains of Lopin. Large amounts, too."

The Mountains of Lopin were what separated the Valley and Easterlands from the Estenhaal. "Why the Mountains but not the River Greenblood?" the River Greenblood was what separated the Styr from the Estenhaal and Cooperlands.

Falahim did not answer immediately. Rather, he stood up and moved a number of the wooden markers with the Heart and chevron sigil of House Fysch towards the ones marked with the cross of House Nyven, Wanasov bannermen.

"From what I have heard from lord Cyrus, the Estenhaalites are planning an invasion of the valley and Easterlands, and are using whatever troops they have on the Greenblood to threaten us, so as to prevent us from assisting our allies in the Valley,"

"But we could easily move troops through the Devil's pass into the Valley to counter any threat." Haragon replied, perplexed.

Falahim reached over the table and moved more markers, this time from the Cooperlands to the Styr's south, ones that contained the Fess of House Cooper, the eight pointed star of House Nakhein, and the intercrossed spears of House San, and sat back in his chair, tired and defeated. "There is your answer."

"The Fyschs have been treating with the Coopers?" Haragon asked in shock.

"They are," Falahim replied dryly, sitting down and burying his face in his hands.

 _Burning Port Daven_ Haragon thought in shock. The Coopers were powerful, and they could raise as nearly as many men as the Wanasovs could. Not to mention that while the Wanasov troops were tied down fighting the Coopers in the south and protecting its share of the Greenblood to the east, The Fyschs would have free run of the Valley and Easterlands. Given what they had done to Houses Indy and Farrin during the Estenhaal civil war, then they would absolutely rampage across it, for the Valleymen had been badly depleted over the previous decade. Only the mountains and military might of the Wanasovs themselves had been keeping the Fyschs from invading the Valley during the years prior.

"Damn them to the Seventh hell," Haragon muttered, invoking a curse not often used by Styrics, for followers of the Seven were not common among them. "Wonder why they would treat with them, given the Estenhaal and Cooperlands fought each other not three years ago,"

Replied Falahim. "The Fyschs are nothing like the Frosts. I would go so far as to say the two houses are polar opposites. Where the Frosts wouldn't ally with them, due to old rivalries, the Fyschs have no such qualms. Remember how they handled the Gyt prisoners after Crows Peak?"

Haragon did remember. After one particularly nasty battle in the Valley of Nokoseov, one he had fought in, during the War of the Seven Kings, the Estenhaalite commander, Lord Rydel Fysch, had executed every soldier of House Gyt they had captured, mainly because Lord Sarionis Gyt had killed Romar's son and heir, Rydev. That incident had badly soured relations between the Marcher lords subservient to House York and the Estenhaalites, at the time subservient to House Frost. Now that House Fysch ruled the Estenhaal, maybe House Wanasov could get the Marcher lords onto its side in this war that was definitely going to happen. The Marchers, Haragon had heard, were out for blood against the Estenhaalites.

"That incident soured relations between the Marches and Estenhaal. Why not send a raven to Port Emvo and ask the Yorks for their help?" Haragon thought aloud.

"Possibly," replied Falahim. "But Lord Exum fucked it all up, remember?"

"No." Haragon replied, perplexed for the first time. "What happened?"

"I forgot you weren't there," Falahim replied "You were at Crow's Peak."

"Yes, fighting Father's War as a squire. Now answer the damn question," Haragon's reply was much more curt that he had hoped it to be. Falahim did not look to be in the mood for such replies. 

"Very well. Lord Exum personally slew Verys III York's heir, Sharles. The Marchers have hated us ever since."

"I would hardly call that a Fuck-up. That was war, what the Fyschs did to the Gyts was unnecessary cruelty," Haragon pointed out.

Falahim shrugged. "Regardless, they have hated us ever since."

Even with that explanation, Haragon did not understand why. Styrics weren't known for their honor, but hating an entire region just because one Lord killed your heir was not honorable, nor did it make sense. 

_You can be mad about it, sure. But don't be so damn so petulant and dishonorable_

A knock on the great oak doors behind them disrupted their council. Haragon nearly jumped. "My lord," came the voice of Dermar Meng, Haragon's squire, and a member of Koselka vassals House Meng. "Lord Commander Yves is here and he would like to meet with you and His Grace."

Ser Dayton Yves was the Lord Commander of the Blackguard, the seven men sworn to protect the King until the end of their days, like the Kingsguard of Westeros. Haragon had bottomless respect for the man.

Haragon looked at Falahim. His elder brother had his face buried in his hands, a manner not befitting of a King, even one whose Kingdom was no more. He did not look like he wanted to be disrupted from whatever he was thinking

_If he even is thinking. He looks dead. ___

"Send him in," Haragon told his squire.

The oak doors creaked open, and Haragon turned around to see Ser Dayton Yves walk in the council room, from the throne room. 

Ser Dayton was bulky, had black hair, pale eyes, and a clean shaven face scarred by several years of fighting. He had served since the last days of Haragon's grandfather, Dreyfal V, when he had been anointed after the death of Ser Lemari Bayros, and having saved Dreyfal during one battle in the Cooperlands. That was almost forty years ago, and Ser Dayton had faithfully served House Wanasov since then, rising to Lord Commander ten years ago. His all black armor looked like it had been cleaned just earlier, and his walk was noticeably bowlegged. Not much by most other standards, but he waddled in a slight enough way for Haragon to notice.

"Good evening, Ser Dayton." Haragon said respectfully. "What brings you to Cracovia Heights?"

"What brings me here? You ought to ask him that," Ser Dayton replied tersely, nodding in Falahim's direction.

"He looks... incapacitated. Answer my question."

Ser Dayton twitched. "The Lord Commander of the Blackguard answers to the King on the Blackwood throne and no one else."

The Blackwood throne was what House Wanasov was sometimes called, both by Styrics and non-Styrics. "He is the King, but I am the Hand of the King," Haragon replied, pointing to the clasp over his left breast. "And the Hand rules when the King is not able to, for whatever reason."

"But he's not. He's right there, just not willing." replied Ser Dayton irately. "And are you the Hand of the King?"

Haragon saw the trap Ser Dayton laid out, and did not fall into it. "Are you the Lord Commander of the Blackguard?"

Ser Dayton twitched again. "Regardless, I will not answer to you. Only to the King."

"Very well," Haragon sighed. Then, he walked over to where Falahim was sitting, hands still buried in his face, and smacked the back of his head.

Were it any other man, Falahim could probably have executed him, no questions asked. But Haragon was Hand of the King, as well as his brother, so it would have been harder, not to mention the fact that it would be kinslaying, seen as

Falahim jumped up, hands gone off his face in an instant. "Burning Port Daven," he said. "What is it?" he addressed the last part to Haragon, who shrugged.

"Ser Dayton asked to speak with you. But not me. I sent him in anyways. Wonder what he wants."

"And I wasn't told of this why?"

"You were dead asleep, in your seat, in the middle of a fucking war council, no less," Haragon's reply was ironically less curt than he had hoped it to be.

"A war council? Ha! It was only two people. Falahim laughed, almost psychotically. Then he sighed. "Very well. What is it Ser Dayton?"

"I would like to speak with his grace. Alone." was the curt reply from the old knight

Haragon snorted rather loudly. "And the Hand will not hear of this why?"

"Beca-" Ser Dayton went to say but Falahim interrupted him. 

"I will tell you everything Ser Dayton tells me later, I promise. Just leave for now. Please"

Haragon nodded curtly to both his brother and Ser Dayton, then he walked around the table, knelt, and picked up his visored helm from the floor where it lay.

Then he shot Ser Dayton an unsavory look and said. "For the Styr, I will do this. But never again. Clear?"

Ser Dayton did not respond, but Haragon had known him long enough that he was not happy with what Haragon had said. Haragon could read people better than many others could

"I will be at the brothel, most likely." He said to Falahim. "Send someone there for me when all is said and done."

Falahim nodded, looking unsurprised. Haragon frequented the brothel right outside Cracovia Heights, on the outskirts of Cracow, and it was japed that he paid more than all the other customers combined. He also had to have sired many, many bastards, though the Styr in particular had a rather laid-back attitude towards sex and sexual matters. Given the rule of legitimization, Haragon could not legitimize them himself, nor was Falahim willing to do so, but he had recognized all the ones who he knew for sure were his and sent money to them as often as he could. Haragon was attractive enough to get any woman he wanted, but he knew full well he would either have to stay unmarried, or find a wife who did not care about his whoremongering. And women like that were not common, if they even existed. Haragon knew he was unlikely to stop fucking whores as long as he lived.

Lucky for him, he had found a wife. Maria Sovanen. Three years ago, she had came with her father, Delarik, to visit Cracovia Heights on one of the routine visits Wanasov banner men conducted with their overlord. 

Haragon had been taken by her looks, mostly and had courted her. She, surprisingly, had put up with him, and though Haragon had initially courted her for her looks, he had fallen in love with her, strangely so.

Being a sixth son, Haragon was under no obligation to marry strategically, something the Wanasovs did with their banner men. King Robyn XVII had married a Bayros, Robyn's son Dreyfal XV a Kelly, his son Devon a Devon, Falahim a Koselka, and Falahim's heir, Robyn, a Sento. However, Falahim, who had realized that no Wanasov had married a Sovanen in several generations, not since Lyger XII, gave them his blessing, knowing the strategic value of the marriage. Under the godswood, they had married, he nine and ten, she two years younger than he. 

Haragon had gone off to war the following year, as the War of the Four rebellions began, as the Styr and Cooperlands fought a vicious battle at Presque Isle, in which Haragon had been wounded and sent back to Cracovia Heights. Maria gave him a son, Iry, who he named for the penultimate of the Bloody Twenty, Iry V. The year later, she gave him another son, Turvos.

That all seemed to be a distant memory, now. It seemed as if the periods of war in Americanos would never stop. Haragon detested it. He was good at fighting, but actually enjoying it was what Teublonf did, or so he heard.

_The continent needs something to unify itself, lest it be torn apart from the inside._

Haragon opened the great oak doors and saw Dermar, sitting on the bench outside with a wineskin and a peach, one from the Reachlands. "You waited out here all this time?" he asked him, kindly. Haragon was rather fond of Dermar. The boy was incredibly loyal to him.

Dermar shook his head. "I waited at the inn, the one by the brothel, after I accompanied you to the council room. I didn't know you would be taking so long

"No worries, Dermar. And thank you for the Wine and peach."

"Always happy to serve, my lord." Dermar replied shyly. Though he had been Haragon's squire for a few months now, he was still terrified of him, it seemed. Haragon had always thought that funny, it was usually Aramark and his pale grey eyes and jet black hair, who people were terrified of. Aramark always looked as if he was thinking of ways to kill you, while Maria had japed that Haragon was always thinking of ways to fuck you.

It took several minutes for Haragon to walk to the outer gate of Cracovia Heights from the throne room, Dermar in tow, all while eating the peach and draining the wineskin rather fast. _Damn, I was hungry and thirsty._ Then, when they reached the outer gate. Haragon turned to Dermar.

"Tell Falahim that I will be at the Turncoat's inn, not the nearest brothel. And send my apologies to him. And my apologies to you, for making you run this much."

The Turncoat's inn was located near the brothel, and was named for it was where an Andal party that had gathered in Cracow peacefully was slaughtered, during the reign of Robyn VI, the first of the "Bloody Twenty" kings who ruled House Wanasov during the Andal Invasion. The inn had been built on the same spot the Andal leader was killed by Robyn himself. It had a sinister reputation, and the inn keep had been the executioner for House Long, down in the Sutherlands, making it all the more sinister, but it was Haragon's favorite inn, for it served the best ale in Cracow, or so Haragon thought.

Dermar nodded shyly and turned and ran back up towards the throne room.

Haragon stepped into the stables, where hardy, surefooted horses from the south of the Styr were located, and immediately began saddling a horse. The stableboys were not there, most had the day off, but Haragon knew how to saddle a horse.

It didn't take long for Haragon to get down, to the sprawl generated by Cracow. Some estimates of population of Cracow put it at about a million, which made sense, Haragon had seen the city for himself, but even that was massive.

The inn was located near the middle of the sprawl, next to the brothel. Even in such an urban environment, a number of the inns in the city had stables. Choosing to enter the stables first, knowing that keeping horses there was free of charge, Haragon did so, and when he exited the stables, he couldn't help but notice that something was off, but he couldn't place what it was.

Sitting the down at the bar, he place a bronze kuron coin on it to get the attention of the inn keep.

Though the inn keep was stony faced, he approached Haragon and asked. "The usual?"

"Yes."

The inn keep nodded and took the bronze coin, coming back with a large mug of ale. However, not five seconds later, the door opened again.

Haragon, who had just put the mug to his lips, jumped and spilled ale over himself. "Damn." he muttered. Then he turned around and saw Dermar, visibly sweating and panting

Haragon beckoned him over, ignoring the looks the few other patrons gave Dermar and himself, and Dermar sat in the chair next to him.

"What is it?" he sighed.

Dermar took several seconds before responding, mostly because he had to catch his breath. "Its-its from-from his grace."

Haragon leaned in and whispered, so as to not let any other patrons hear it "Very well, what is it?"

Dermar shook his head. "We can't discuss it here. We ought to go to Cracovia Heights

"Go on," Haragon urged the younger man.

"We need to go" was all Dermar replied.

Half an hour later, Haragon was in the throne room. Falahim was seated on it, looking even more tired than he had at the war council, something Haragon thought to be a feat for sure. Ser Dayton was next to him.

"Well?" Haragon asked his brother.

The King sighed. "I've received bad news from Jaremy Trunser."

Jaremy Trunser was the lord of House Trunser, a major house in the Valley, he was also a loyal banner man of House Nokoseov, themselves loyal to the Wanasovs. Haragon remembered him as honest, loyal, and just, everything one needed in a vassal 

"The Fyschs have invaded the Valley. This is war, Haragon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time of this story is 298 AL, the same time as season one in the show. For future reference, I'm using show ages and times.
> 
> Falahim is 42 years old, and Haragon is 26.
> 
> Cracovia Heights is a bit like how Casterly Rock is in the books, it is built into a rock, though overlooking the City of Cracow as opposed to the Sunset sea. It is massive, has many mines, and has never fallen. Wanas I Wanasov's ancestors of House Wanasov have expanded and remodeled the castle many times, and they are the wealthiest house in Americanos


End file.
